Laughed ’Til He Died (2 page)

Annie paused in front of the fireplace and looked up. If she had been a ballerina, she would have danced to a memory of Strauss’s lovely “You and You.”

She hummed the melody and waltzed across the floor of the coffee bar and back. Sometimes, when she was happy, she had to dance. She was happy today, happy to be in her wonderful bookstore, happy to adore her demanding cat, happy that she and Max had planned a very special evening tonight, and happy with the watercolors hanging above the mantel.

Every month a local artist provided Death on Demand with five watercolors depicting memorable scenes from wonderful mysteries. This month’s paintings represented the first books in series that Annie considered among the best in the mystery world. The first customer to correctly identify author and title received a free book (noncollectible) and free coffee for a month. Annie refused to add up how many months of free coffee had been enjoyed by Henny Brawley, the store’s best customer and Annie’s good friend. Maybe this month would be different…

In the first painting, a tall, slim young woman with striking reddish-blond hair stared in horror at the overflowing bathtub. She clutched a maid’s cap in one hand and wore a black maid’s uniform. A fully clothed man, even to a black overcoat, lay submerged in the water, staring upward with dead, glassy eyes. His dead face was unprepossessing.

In the second painting, a petite young woman leaned against
the side of a lakefront cottage, looking up at the porch and two burly men, one with blond hair held by a bandana do-rag, the other with a massive wiry brown beard. In the yard, a dozen motorcycles were bunched. Their riders looked big, rough, and dangerous.

In the third painting, a small African woman, her back twisted, one leg shorter than the other, struggled to mount the steps of a wooden scaffold where a noose hung waiting. A crowd of thousands, black faces and white, watched in frozen silence. Not far from the wooden structure stood a young white woman, her face strained but determined.

In the fourth painting, a young woman with short dark hair, dressed all in black, from her polo sweater to her black leggings, crouched behind the balustrade of the minstrel gallery to peer down into a candlelit village hall at seven figures in black hooded cloaks drinking beer. A black cloth covered a table near the back wall.

In the fifth painting, protective face visor lifted, a woman stared in horror at putrefying human remains scattered on the ground. She was a startling figure in the desert moonlight, her head bristling with electronic wires and probes, her body encased in a lightweight metal contraption of arm and leg braces, a web vest fastening her to a computerized spine.

Each book was utterly original. Annie loved recommending these authors and she was thankful for mysteries, old and new, that made her bookstore a magnet for mystery lovers. Annie was convinced her customers also came for the ambience, a molting raven perched above the children’s section near a photograph of Edgar Allen Poe’s tomb, comfortably cushioned wicker chairs and potted ferns à la the days of Mary Roberts Rinehart, and posters from famous mystery movies, including
The Cat and the
Canary, Charlie Chan Carries On, The Thin Man, Ellery Queen and the Murder Ring,
and
Murder by Death
. Pride of place went to the vintage poster for
The Maltese Falcon,
worth a cool $3,500. Humphrey Bogart was the quintessential Sam Spade: wary, suspicious, battered but never broken.

As she made another graceful swoop, the storeroom door banged open.

“Some people get to dance.” Max Darling stood in the doorway, holding a sturdy cardboard box.

As always, Annie’s heart danced, too. Was there a man anywhere as handsome, sexy, and fun as her tall, blond husband?

At the moment, he was trying hard not to smile, attempting, in fact, to appear apprehensive. “Other people steal sand from the beach. I wonder if I broke any laws. At least I didn’t take a sand dollar.”

“Max, you’re here!” Her exclamation indicated sheer delight. “Bring the sand up to the front. I’ve got the books ready.”

Annie walked swiftly down the central corridor, her flats slapping on the heart pine floor. She hurried to the front window, humming “Summertime.” Quickly she removed the books that had celebrated the Fourth of July:
Roanoke
by Margaret Lawrence,
Blood and Thunder
by Max Allan Collins,
Red, White, and Blue Murder
by Jeanne M. Dams,
Murder on Lenox Hill
by Victoria Thompson, and
The Drop Edge of Yonder
by Donis Casey. No books were more American than these.

Annie never tired of showcasing mysteries sure to please. Well, they might not please everyone, but they pleased Annie.

A thud sounded behind her. “Damn.” Max’s exclamation was anguished. Perhaps a trifle too anguished?

She turned. “Are you all right?”

Her husband bent to massage a sandaled foot. “Dropped on
my big toe.” He gave the sand-filled box a kick, grimaced. “I may never walk again.” He reached out to drape himself against her. “I need solace. Lots of solace.”

Mmm. Trust Max.

But she smiled. It never mattered when she saw him, movie-star handsome in a tux, sleepy-eyed with bristly cheeks in a T-shirt and boxers, muscular and tanned in swim trunks, sweaty in a polo and shorts on a tennis court, every glimpse evoked the same swift, passionate delight. Her husband, her wonderful husband.

His blue eyes gleamed, and his arm slid more firmly around her shoulders.

She wriggled free. “Your toe will be fine. Get some ice from the coffee bar. I need to arrange the sand.” She spread a drop cloth and troweled beach sand from the box.

Agatha suddenly appeared and, with an effortless leap, landed in the display. One swift paw whipped out to bat at the trickle of sand.

“Uh-oh.” Annie put down the trowel and reached for the cat, who eluded her grasp. “Agatha, don’t even think about it.”

Behind her, Max laughed.

It took some effort and a tempting dish of cat salmon to entice Agatha out of the window and down the aisle to the kitchen area. Annie returned, somewhat breathless. “In a little while, maybe you could put up a lattice so she can’t jump into the window.”

“A lattice, the woman says. Presto.” He snapped his fingers. “One lattice coming up. Where’s the lattice store?”

“Try the lumberyard.” There was a plea in her voice. “Maybe you could go get it while I arrange the sand.”

He leaned against the wall. “I buy lattices and you arrange
sand. You can’t say we aren’t original.” His tone was musing. “Now, what would anybody say if they heard you announce that you were arranging sand? Doesn’t that have a Laurelesque quality?”

Annie laughed. “I’m not in Laurel’s league.” Was that ever true. Max’s mother, a gorgeous blonde who enchanted men from eight to eighty, was, to put it kindly, a free spirit who was ever and always unpredictable.

“Even Laurel never asked me to carry sand. Do you have any idea how heavy that box was? Why not just put up a beach chair? People who read books can imagine anything. Show them a beach chair and a stack of books and they’ll make the connection: beach books! That would only take a few minutes and then we could go home and make some beach music of our own. As for a lattice, that comes later.”

This time his hand started at the back of her neck and began slipping…

Annie ducked away. “Look how much I’ve taken out. Now you can pick up the box and pour.”

He moved with alacrity. “Then we can go home?” His dark blue eyes told her that she was desirable, that they could be home in their splendidly restored antebellum house in a matter of minutes, that the sun would spill into the master bedroom…

She should finish setting up the new display. There were orders to fill and e-mails to answer. But Max was so near and she ached to tangle her fingers in his thick blond hair and lift her lips—

The front bell jangled as the door opened.

“Max.” Jean Hughes’s strident voice broke a golden spell. She burst into the central corridor, attractive yet with a frowsy look, a bit too much makeup, clothes a little too tight.

Jean rushed toward Max without a glance or murmur to Annie.

Annie folded her arms, determinedly maintaining a pleasant expression.

Max took a deep breath, then managed a quick wry grin and a promissory glance before he turned.

Before he could speak, Jean blurted, “I saw you through the window. I’d been to your office. I don’t want to bother you, but please, can I talk to you?”

Annie considered clearing her throat since she was apparently invisible to Jean.

Jean reached out and gripped Max’s arm, tugging him toward the door. “Please. Oh, please. I need help. You’re a nice man. Everyone says so. Please help me.”

Annie’s resentment was abruptly swept away. The quaver in Jean’s voice was real, and the desperate appeal in her eyes revealed a depth of misery.

Jean held out a trembling hand. “I’ve seen your ad in the paper. Confidential Commissions. Problems solved in a heartbeat.”

That was a new ad, in which Max took great pride. He did not hold himself out to be a private detective, nor was he offering legal counsel. He was a member of the New York bar, but had never taken the South Carolina bar. Max was firm in insisting no special qualification was needed to provide advice to those in travail.

“I’ve got an awful problem.” There was nothing artful in Jean’s language, but her stricken face told a tale of despair. “Please help me. I don’t know what to do.”

Max recognized heartbreak. His resistant look faded. He nodded toward the door. “Sure. Let’s go over to my office. Maybe it will help to talk—”

The door closed behind them.

Annie watched until they were out of sight. What had reduced the woman to such a pathetic state? Although Annie was well aware that their South Carolina sea island of Broward’s Rock wasn’t a paradise, even if it often seemed so, the island certainly wasn’t the proper backdrop for an Ibsen drama. Still, she didn’t like the possessive way Jean had clung to Max’s arm as they walked on the boardwalk.

Annie shrugged. She’d know soon enough. She worked briskly on the new display, artfully placing the titles face up on the sand. The books, all superb mysteries, had the added cachet of offering stories set in South Carolina:
The Mercy Oak
by Kathryn R. Wall,
Hush My Mouth
by Cathy Pickens,
Mama Pursues Murderous Shadows
by Nora DeLoach,
Too Late for Angels
by Mignon F. Ballard,
Monet Talks
by Tamar Myers, and
Murder in the Charleston Manner
by Patricia Houck Sprinkle.

Of course, Jean had been a disaster from the first. Hiring her to be the new director at the Haven had been on a par with choosing a chorus girl to head up a nunnery. Max wasn’t on the board at the Haven, though he’d been invited. As a volunteer, he wanted to avoid any conflict of interest, but he’d regretted that decision when Jean Hughes was appointed.

What were the board members thinking?

Annie didn’t need to be a mystery expert to know the answer. Not for the first time in human annals, when money sizzled, good sense fizzled.

Max still volunteered, teaching sailing and tennis, coaching basketball, but he avoided gatherings attended by board members. That wasn’t accurate. When possible, he avoided one particular board member: Booth Wagner. Island bigwigs, including the mayor and heads of charities, had been ecstatic when Wag
ner retired to the island and turned his considerable energies to island affairs—his energies and his apparently limitless wallet.

Jean as Haven director was a fait accompli when Max came home to tell Annie that the board, responding to Wagner’s offer to fund a new gym, selected her on his recommendation. Max had been wry. “She’s about as qualified to run anything as a panda.”

Annie brushed sand from her fingers. Maybe Max would finish soon and they would close up their respective shops and go home for more fun than even the best mystery provided. After all, Jean Hughes wasn’t their problem.

J
ean’s harsh sobs brought Max’s secretary, whose heart was as big as her beehive hairdo, to his office door. Summer-bright in a yellow tunic and white capris, Barb looked at him questioningly.

As awkward as most men in the face of feminine meltdown, Max cleared his throat. “How about some iced tea, Jean? Hey, Barb, bring us some of your special fruit tea and good lemon pie.”

Since Max’s business was sporadic, Barb took advantage of her spare time to create tantalizing desserts in the back room that also served as an amazing tiny kitchen.

Jean, using a handkerchief provided by Max, wiped her face, leaving purplish smudges atop puffy redness. She looked shyly at Barb when she returned. Barb placed a tray with two big tumblers and two plates on the desk. “Goji berries and guava, my own private blend. Guaranteed to refresh. And lemon pie made this morning.”

Jean managed a smile. “Thank you.” She took a bite of pie. “Hey, that’s good. I haven’t eaten much, I’ve been so upset. Booth texted me yesterday, told me the board was going to fire me. I kept calling and he never answered. I finally talked to him this morning. He laughed and said it’s a done deal. I saw your ad in the paper yesterday afternoon. I cut it out.” She looked at Max with red-rimmed eyes. “I know you think I’m stupid.” There was resignation in her voice instead of indignation. “I don’t know the kind of stuff people are supposed to know to run things. But the kids like me.”

Max felt a rush of embarrassment. He’d been disdainful. He’d chalked Jean up as a bimbo forced on the Haven by Booth Wagner and hoped the board would come to its senses and not renew her contract this summer.

“Yes, the kids like you.” He looked at her with new eyes. She spoke the truth. Most of the kids thought Jean was great. The Haven offered games and classes and after-school snacks to latchkey kids in winter and a full recreational program in the summer that drew kids from both modest and affluent backgrounds. Kids had to feel welcome or they wouldn’t come. Since Jean had become director, attendance had swelled. Was that success enough to counterbalance her lack of understanding of accounting procedures and slapdash record-keeping and the sometimes voluptuous appearance that worried the mostly single moms whose hormonally charged teenage sons clustered in craft classes around Jean, instead of strenuous games designed to siphon off some of their excessive energy?

She leaned forward. “I know what everybody thinks. Some of it’s true.” She looked forlorn. “I met Booth last summer at a jazz bar in Atlanta. I’m a singer. Maybe not a very good one. Good enough. And I didn’t sleep with the customers. Plenty
of them tried. I could have picked up a lot of money. I needed money, but I didn’t do it. Then Booth came and he treated me really nice and he acted like he cared for me, really cared. Do you know what he did?” She talked as fast as angry wasps milling from a spilled nest. “When he realized I cared for him, he started talking about my coming to the island. He said he and his wife were separated. I didn’t know that was a lie. He asked me if I liked kids and I told him I did. I loved babysitting when I was growing up.” There was an innocence in her voice that made Max wince. “He said he’d help me get a job at a rec center for the kids. How could I have known that he wanted me hired because it would make this old lady on the board mad? Booth thought it was a scream. He laughed and laughed about the way Miss Prentice acted around me, like I was something dirty a crow had dropped. I talked to Booth this morning. He doesn’t think the joke’s funny anymore, me and the board.” Once again the tears brimmed. “He’s mad and getting back at me because I told him I wasn’t anybody’s other woman and I wasn’t going to sneak around behind his wife’s back. He took my life and used it and now he’s stopped laughing. He told the board members my résumé’s phony. He’s the one who put the résumé together. I didn’t even know what was in it until after I was hired and then I couldn’t say anything, could I? When I asked him why he did it, he laughed and laughed and said he’d really pulled the wool over the board’s eyes and it served them right because they were so stuffy. Can you help me?” She used the back of one hand to wipe away the tears. “Will you help me?” Her voice broke.

A
NNIE’S EYES FLASHED.
“He’s despicable.” She paced in front of Max’s desk.

Barb stood with her hands on her hips. “What can we do?” She looked as affronted as a mother cat defending her kittens against a barking dog.

Max held up a cautioning hand. “As they say in the newspaper business—”

Annie knew the nearest Max had been to a newsroom was a role in
The Front Page
for the local little theater.

“—‘Your mother says she loves you. Check it out.’” He flicked on the speakerphone and dialed a number.

“Yo, Darling.” Booth Wagner’s voice was ebullient. “How’s the world treating you?”

“No complaints, Booth.” Max’s tone was easy. “I understand you fabricated Jean Hughes’s résumé without her consent.”

There was a pause. Then a whoop of laughter. “Prove it, good buddy. Her word against mine. Anybody can take one look at Jean and know she’s a dame on the make. Anyway, she’s a little late complaining, isn’t she? Don’t worry yourself about all of this, boy.”

Max’s jaw ridged.

“The board agrees with me,” Wagner boomed. “We vote at the annual meeting next week. I got my votes lined up. She’s out as of July fifteenth. Tomorrow night’s shindig will be her going-out party. Be sure and come. I’ll do a little roast of Jean, give everybody a laugh, Jean confronting her first spreadsheet, Jean encountering Robert’s Rules of Order and asking who Robert was.” Another whoop.

S
O MUCH FOR
afternoon delight, Annie thought ruefully. Or evening, for that matter. Instead of dancing cheek-to-cheek at the country club to celebrate the evening they first met, Max
hunched at the computer in their upstairs his-and-her study, a half-eaten salad pushed aside. Dorothy L., delighted to have her favorite human at hand, draped herself comfortably in his lap and purred.

Not one to ignore meals, Annie took her last bite of a scrumptious cheeseburger from Parotti’s Bar and Grill, wiped her fingers on a red-checked napkin, and punched a telephone number with pleasure.

Henny Brawley, tipped off by Caller ID, answered cheerfully. “I’ve already heard Booth Wagner’s version. Between me and thee, Jean has some challenges running anything, but she has a good heart so tell Max he’s got my vote. Max may be able to swing it. I’m sure he’s already talked to Frank Saulter. Larry Gilbert’s a possibility. Larry and Booth used to be big buds, but at the last board meeting it didn’t take a swami to figure out the boys were crossways. Nothing overt, but there was no clap-on-the-back bonhomie between them. Whatever Booth suggested, Larry was against it. In fact, this was actually funny though it didn’t get a laugh from Larry. Booth proposed cutting five hundred dollars from the summer rec programs. Larry immediately proposed increasing the budget by a thousand. Frank Saulter and Pauline Prentice were all over an increase as was I. After votes placing the motion on the agenda, et cetera, the increase was approved. Booth guffawed and managed between bouts of hilarity to explain the increase had been his plan all along. Anyway, the vote may have to be delayed unless Booth has a proxy for Pauline. She spends July in Italy. Now for a matter of greater interest to me, has someone beaten me to it with the paintings?”

Annie felt a quiver of delight. Maybe this time, Henny would be stumped. Annie was careful not to let her voice reflect her hope. “Gee, Henny, I don’t think so. I had a customer from the
mainland this morning,” fiction was not reserved exclusively for authors, “who had all but two.”

Henny was gruff. “Which two?”

“She wasn’t sure about the fourth painting. She said she was sure she knew the book and pretty soon she’d remember the title. And she wasn’t positive about the fifth.”

“The fifth is a piece of cake. But that second one! No wonder she didn’t get the fourth one. I haven’t either.” Henny sounded relieved. “You know, fair’s fair.”

Annie prepared to do battle. “Everyone has equal opportunity—”

“If a reader of my sophistication is baffled, that strongly suggests the painting doesn’t accurately reflect the book. There is a fair solution. Exclude the fourth painting.”

“You have the other four.” It wasn’t a question.

“On the money.”

Annie was firm. “Takes five.”

“Fair’s fair.” Henny was emphatic. “Think about it. See you and Max tomorrow night at the program.” The line clicked off.

Annie glared at the phone. “We’ll see what’s fair.”

The phone rang. Annie glanced at Caller ID. “Hi, Laurel.”

“Annie, my sweet.” Her mother-in-law’s husky voice brimmed with concern. “Your message sounded strained.”

Laurel had empathy to the tips of her toes. Annie wasn’t surprised that her mother-in-law had detected stress. Jean Hughes was dominating their evening. Moreover, it looked increasingly likely that tomorrow night she and Max were going to be in the thick of the Haven’s annual summer talent show, but enjoying the fun would not be their priority.

Annie looked at Max, intent and intense as he sent e-mails. Short of slapping a gag on Booth Wagner, Annie didn’t see any
thing but trouble ahead at the Haven. But she wouldn’t have it any other way. Jean had come to Death on Demand seeking a kind man. That was what she found.

“Maybe a little stressed. Max and I are trying to round up people to come to the talent show at the Haven tomorrow night to lobby the board members for the director’s reappointment.”

“Really? From what I’ve heard, there’s some question about Ms. Hughes’s suitability.”

Annie knew how to approach her mother-in-law. “Some people oppose anyone who is fresh and different.” Annie pushed away a memory of Jean’s too-tight clothes and abundant makeup. Tastes differed. “More kids are coming to the Haven than ever before. She’s been a little disorganized, but she’s going to take some classes over the Internet, some basic accounting. Frank Saulter’s promised to help with the books.” The retired police chief, Frank was highly regarded on the island. “A bunch of the boys are making posters for tomorrow night.”

Laurel’s laughter was throaty but delighted. “I have a soft spot for the unconventional. That may surprise you—”

Annie squashed her immediate inward hoot. Conventionality and Laurel were mutually exclusive concepts.

“—but I’ll be glad to come on board. Tell me what I need to do.”

A
NNIE KNEW THAT
Emma Clyde, the island’s gruff mystery writer, was enjoying the euphoria attendant upon completing a manuscript and sending the e-files to her editor. During this happy time Emma could likely be persuaded to do almost anything short of dancing on top of the piano. However, protocol—and Emma’s ego—required a thorough discussion of the
just-completed manuscript, the huge difficulties Emma had faced, and her brilliant solution to an intractable plot problem. Only then had Annie segued into the reason for her call. She almost had her spiel memorized. “…Please call these five names and urge them to come to—” A little whiffy beep signaled another call on the line. Annie glanced at Caller ID. “Oh, hey, Emma, I’ve got a call I should take. Anyway, please persuade them to come to the Haven talent show tomorrow night and seek out board members in support of the director Jean Hughes.” A second beep. “Lay it on thick about the island coming together behind her because of her rapport with the teenagers.” Not to mention, and Annie wouldn’t, Jean’s undeniable sexual appeal for horny teenage boys. “I’ll let you go. Billy Cameron’s on the other line.” She clicked. “Hey, Billy.” Her voice was warm. Police Chief Billy Cameron was not only a good steward of his island, he was Annie and Max’s dear friend.

“Hi, Annie. Is Max there?”

Billy’s voice told her this call was official. “Yes.” Her reply was swift and breathless and she was on her feet and holding out the phone to Max. “It’s for you. Billy Cameron.”

S
HADOWS GREW AS
the summer sun slipped behind huge loblolly pines that bordered the lake. Though spears of rosy light still touched the center of the lake, dusk cloaked the woods. Birds chittered as they settled for the night. An owl hooted. A light breeze rustled magnolia leaves. A faint scent of fragrant magnolia blossoms overlay the danker smell of the lake. Nearby pines threw dark shadows across the wooden viewing platform.

Billy Cameron held a flashlight trained on a body at the base of the ladder. The young black teenager’s face was slack in death.
He’d had a chubby face. “Held him until you got here. Doc Burford’s been and gone.” Billy pointed at the braided green-and-black friendship band around the right wrist. “Most of the guys at the Haven wear those. Kevin’s got one.”

Max nodded. Billy’s teenage stepson was a regular at the Haven. Kevin was the driving force behind the Haven’s first rock band. A memory bobbed in the back of Max’s mind: Jean Hughes patiently teaching chords to an aspiring guitarist.

Billy looked expectant. “I figured you might be able to ID him.”

Max felt a wash of melancholy. This lovely summer day, a day when living should have been easy, had ended in the much-too-soon death of a kid who’d had great promise. Max’s voice was heavy. “Click Silvester. Hubert, actually. A really good guy. Worked part-time at José’s Computer Repair. Click was a whiz with anything electronic. He could do a paintball gun faster than anybody. That’s why they called him Click. No parents. He and his little brother live with an uncle, Arlen Garvey. The little guy, he’s maybe seven or eight, hangs out at the Haven, too. I don’t think they had much of a home life. What happened?”

“Accident, maybe.” Billy nodded at the ladder. “He could have been up there, looking at birds, and when he started down the ladder, he could have lost his grip, fallen backward. Doc said massive hematoma on the back of his head. Or maybe somebody whacked him with something firm, but not sharp-edged since there’s no cut or scrape, lugged him to the edge, and pushed him over. Whatever happened, somebody was here when he fell or found him later.” The police chief’s quiet voice was taut with anger. Billy Cameron was a gentle giant, but he had zero tolerance for lawbreakers. He was imposing in his crisp khaki
uniform, a big man with short-cut blond hair, a broad face, and bright blue eyes.